


The First Time

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Fisting, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut, soft walker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:07:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27623813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: There’s the first time you sleep together, and then there’s the first time thatmatters.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 31





	The First Time

The first time isn’t just good. It’s the best you’ve had in a _long_ time. Where you don’t have to say _what about me_ because he gets you off before he even fucks you, where he holds your wrists in the loose circle of his fingers and strokes you with his other hand, gives you his fingers one, two, three in careful succession while you’re still shivering from his thumb on your clit, so when he slides the first finger in you gasp and tell him _yes, that’s it._

And you need it, he’s big _everywhere,_ thick and hot and you’d thought maybe— but then you’re trying to bring him closer with your heels digging into his back, urging more, fuck, “more. _Please._ ” And he likes that, rolls his hips in the _filthiest_ way, curving his whole body into it and that’s. That’s _really fucking good._ You could live in that moment and you tell him that between thrusts, breathless and biting your lip, and when he moves to cup a hand under your ass to tilt you at an angle, you like that even _more._

It’s like he’s memorized everything his partners have ever told him about how they like to be fucked, and you’re reaping the benefits because he is _legendary_ in your circles for a spectacular night (but never an encore). And he’s— not gentle, not exactly. Thoughtful, maybe, but that isn’t quite right either. You get the sense he’s holding back, so after, when he’s sitting up reading emails on his phone and you’re resting with your head against his thigh and a lazy arm curled around where his ass meets the bed— you ask him. 

“Is that what it’s always like with you?” And that’s maybe not the best opening, it makes him tense against you, and “shit. No, sorry, that’s. What I mean is, fuck, that was _incredible._ But what about you? What do you like?” 

And he smirks a little, reaches a hand down to where he can stroke a finger along the seam of your lips, briefly slipping it inside. “Next time I’ll show you.” 

That’s the first time. But the first time that _counts_ is this. Not the second or even the third time, but the first time he doesn’t weigh his words before he speaks, when he tells you what he wants without having to worry about whether you’ll kick him out of bed. 

When he says “I want to put my hand in you, and fuck you sloppy after,” and it makes you clench around the fingers he’s already got inside you. 

And when he’s in you to the wrist, when his hand is a careful closed fist stretching you beyond anything you’ve ever felt, he lifts a hand mirror so you can see where his wrist disappears inside you, and he husks out “look at that, pet. Look at how _well_ you’re taking me.” He’s never called you _pet_ before, never called you anything but your name, and he feels the impact of it on you, the way your walls flutter around him at the word. 

And he opens his hand just a little, presses it deeper just a touch, and his eyes are fixed on your face, on the way you glance between his eyes and the mirror, and you lose track of him for a while because your world is suddenly coming apart at the seams. 

And then. 

“Still with me, pet?” His smile is almost gentle but you can see the sharp teeth behind it now. He’s easing his hand out nice and slow, licking at his fingers and god that’s something. So’s the way he leans down to kiss you wet and open as he’s guiding himself inside, as you’re trying to close around the ghost of his hand. 

And it’s— well. His hand was almost unbearably big but he was careful to keep it mostly still. And now he is _moving._ Long, dirty rolls of his hips at first, til he sits back on his heels with your legs around his waist and really starts to lay into you. It’s obscene, the slap and squelch of wet flesh. The way he gets his hands under your thighs and holds you there, your shoulders on the bed and hands flopping helpless against the sheets. It’s overwhelming, _too much too good_ and he grits out “let go. Just feel it for me,” your mind cracking around sensation, your world narrowing to just the sensation of him in you. And you let go, and you feel him carry you away. 

It’s the first time it matters, the first time trust enters into it, the first time he moves to get up after settling you clean and comfortable between the sheets and hears you ask him, “stay.”


End file.
